3503 
B6622 






THE LIBRARY 

OF 

THE UNIVERSITY 
OF CALIFORNIA 

LOS ANGELES 





n. 



SINGING PLACES 



SINGING PLACES 



BY 
MARGARET BARBER BOWEN 




THE CORNHILL COMPANY 
BOSTON 



Copyright, 1919 

by 
THE COKNHILL COMPANY 



3 



TO 

A. B. C. 

WHO GOING DOWN THE PATH OF 
PAIN FINDS SINGING PLACES 



973014 



The Path of Pain is very dark 
And very, very long, 
Bui even in its utter deeps 
Somewhere upsprings a song. 



SINGING PLACES 



SINGING PLACES 



MY PILGRIMAGE 

Whereso er my journeyings 
Over Earth s uncharted beauties 

There is something clear that sings 
Down my path of daily duties. 

As I make my pilgrimage 

Thro a world endowed with graces, 
Joy becomes my heritage; 

Lo! I walk thro singing places. 

Like a bird within its cage 
So my Heart a Song encases; 

Wheresoe er my pilgrimage 

Still it leads thro singing places. 



l] 



SINGING PLACES 



THE BLUE NUNS SING 

Each day with setting of the sun 
From cloistered shelter slowly file 

The Nuns in Blue, and one by one, 
Proceed in shadows down the aisle. 

(The outer bloom of Life and Sun 
Must be denied a holy Nun.) 

Then seated silently apart, 

From mundane worshippers defined, 
These singers of the contrite heart 

Begin the worship of their kind. 

But in the music, sweetly sung, 

The prisoned Woman s soul makes cry- 
The Womanhood so rudely flung 

Aside as sin, unconsciously, 
Unbidden, but insistent still, 

Sings with a voice that s all her own. 
The Nun is fabric of the will, 

But Woman God can make alone! 

The singing ceases with the light, 
The fleeting candle-gold is gone; 

The Blue Nuns pass into the night, 
Their tiny glimpse of Day is done. 

(The outer bloom of Life and Sun 
Must be denied a holy Nun.) 

[2] 



SINGING PLACES 

AT THE ENGLISH CRAFT-SHOP IN 
CASA GUIDI 

(The Home of the Brownings in Florence) 

Within the Casa Guidi mute I stood 

Where from its famed casement I could see 

Palazzo Pitti, and the Boboli 

Flinging its bloom across my memoried mood. 

Resist those memories, whosoever could 

Despite the lure of lapis lazuli 

And sun-kissed amber fashioned graciously 

For here insistent did her presence brood 

That English linnet, small and lyric-wise 

Who sang her heart out neath these Tuscan skies. 

So tiptoed I the stair past her dear door, 

Her craft-shop, where so radiantly were wrought 

The lucent jewels of a woman s thought . . . 

The craft-shop Casa Guidi knows no more. 



SINGING PLACES 



PAESTUM 

Slowly o er the plains to Paestum 

Trailed the tourist train; 
Bleak and bare and grim they stretched there 

In the April rain. 

Slowly o er the plains to Paestum 

Suddenly a bush 
All aflame with reddening Springtime 

Broke the visual hush. 

Slowly o er the plains to Paestum 

Pilgrimage divine, 
Pilgrimage to pagan temples 

What religion thine! 

Noblest records of religion 

Pagan was it? Then 
Might the Christian churches builders 

Pagans be again! 

For a wave of utter worship 

Flooded all my soul, 
And the peace of perfect Beauty 

On my spirit stole. 

Beauty in its great dimensions 

Nothing is but God 
And beside those pagan temples 

Knelt I on the sod. 



SINGING PLACES 



Would that in ornate St. Peter s 

One could send a prayer 
Unassisted, straight to Heaven 

As in temples there, 

Where the myriad emerald lizards 

Gleaming where we pass 
Praise him with their lucent beauty 

In the emerald grass ; 

Where those old and sacred columns 

Towering up in calm 
Are a moulded Benediction 

And a builded Psalm. 



Slowly o er the plains from Paestum, 

From the temples there, 
Came we chastened into Cava, 

Purified by prayer. 



[5] 



SINGING PLACES 



RAVELLO 

Breathless from the dizzy beauty of that drive 

within a dream 

Turquoise-colored, emerald-tinted, sapphire- 
shrouded, wind we still 

Upward, upward, ever upward, toward that cita 
del supreme 

Which in centuries now silent held dominion 
on the hill. 

Over roads where Latin princes, proudly mounted, 

used to ride, 
Roads which wear a look eternal, telling Man 

he is but dust, 
Winding, winding, ever-winding, serpent-like they 

coil and glide 

Round the crags and thro the forests, and we 
follow where we must! 

Pulsing, panting, palpitating, at the glory all 

amaze, 

Winding, winding, ever-upward in a wonder- 
woven spell, 
Till at last Completed Beauty lies before our sated 

gaze, 

And the olive-cheeked Giuseppe murmurs 
raptly: "E Ravell !" 



SINGING PLACES 



THE LEPER ON THE CAPRI ROAD 

I pray your gracious alms, Signora, sweet. 

A leper I, and tho the scene be gay 

With hyacinthine glimpses of the bay, 

And orange-hedges coloring the street, 

Yet am I sombre, lacking bread and meat; 

No home but any lane wherein I stray, 

Which dimmer grows as dimmer grows the day, 

And wearier and worn my lagging feet. 

I pray your gracious alms, O lady fair, 

For as I caught the rustle of your gown, 

And glimpsed the burnished amber of your hair, 

I thought the Lady Mary had come down 

In visioned answer to my silent prayer 

To raise me up and crown me with her crown. 



7] 



SINGING PLACES 



AT OBERAMMERGAU 

The Christ hangs white upon the cross, 

The Marys silent weep, 
And thief to left, and thief to right 

Is sunk in shamed sleep. 

Then through the gloom of stricken throng 

Strained in remorseful hush, 
There shimmers sweet a triumph note 

God s messenger a thrush! 



SINGING PLACES 



THE GARDEN-HOUSE AT WEIMAR 

In the Garden-House at Weimar wistful with the 
June 

Peeped I forth from long-craved casement (bliss 
ful boon!) 

From the cherished crystal casements whence his 
frequent face 

Had gazed down in sweet enjoyment of this place. 

Emerald lawn and shaded pathway, cool and very 

dim, 

Velvet moss, a fragrant carpet crushed by him, 
Flowering bush with eager Bluebird on its tilting 

bough 
To be telling of his music shrilly now. 

Of his sweetly haunting music, wildest ecstasy 
Mingling with a sadly-sweeter misery, 
Music sometimes fondly chiming manly friend 
ship s strain 
With its moving Schiller-mofif, and again 

Music shadowed with the sorrow of a love-lost 

way, 

Or again, the glorious passion of to-day. 
These the strains the eager Bluebird would for me 

retell 

With its tiny-toned re-chiming silver bell. 
[9] 



SINGING PLACES 



Then a sudden, April-mocking, uninvited shower 
Quick eclipsing Bird-in-song and Bush-in-flower, 
But around the Titan-torrent flickered all the 

while 
Golden sunshine, swift-recalling Goethe s smile! 

Round the Garden-House at Weimar linger Sun 

and Rain, 

Nature s subtle reminiscence Joy and Pain 
Such as filled the days of Goethe when his urgent 

art 
Was the bitter-sweet absorption of his heart. 

Round the Garden-House at Weimar slowly Dusk 
drew on 

Cautious, dubious of the Daylight as a faun. 

Thro the silent, perfumed wetness, faintly breath 
ing by, 

Then I heard the inspiration of a sigh! 

And his spirit, in the dimness, almost touched my 

own 

Then, the mystic bond was broken he was flown! 
But the Garden-House at Weimar with its Goethe 

thrill 
Burned a scarlet spot in Memory vivid still. 



10 



SINGING PLACES 

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN 

(Oxford) 

How could st thou, Shelley, in this sacred spot 

Feel God is not? 

Where every gracious bush and mystic flower 

Proclaims His power, 

Where Wisdom permeates the cloistral air 

And proves Him there? 

For what is Wisdom but a branch of God, 

A flowering rod 

Assuring by its very blossoming 

That it did spring 

From out a source beyond its patentness 

Could st thou not guess 

What Source? Thou ardent beauty-loving soul, 

Not guess the whole, 

When its so-radiant and persuading part 

Entranced thy heart? 

This hour within the University 

They showed to me 

Thy writing by thy certain boyish hand 

When thou did st stand 

Declaring in thy knowledge, youngly-sure, 

With purpose pure, 

That no Supremer Being did exist; 

An atheist 



11 



SINGING PLACES 



Thou with a fondly -proud publicity 

Did st claim to be. 

O brave pathetic Boy! In thy white days 

To choose thy ways 

Alone, and unsustained essay thy flight 

Thro Life s black night . . . 

Within thy Skylark on his starward wing 

In that small thing 

Unconsciously a greater wisdom grew 

He knew, he knew! 

"Blithe Spirit," he winged surely to the skies, 

So wise, so wise! 



12 



SINGING PLACES 

THE LOVELY LADS OF RUGBY 

("Dulce Domum Resonemus") 

We waited there at Rugby 

For the oncoming train 
And thro my thoughts the Rugby lads 

Came homing back again. 

So sweet a home is Rugby 

That surely never yet 
E en space or years or sorrows 

Could make the lads forget. 

And now when England summons 

They swift obey her call 
But turn their hearts to Rugby 

Ere they must fight or fall. 

Dear lads, the flower of England, 

How gallant an array ! 
(For they are Youth incarnate 

Upon this dreaming day.) 

True to their master s model, 

In nobleness defined 
They marched in blithe battalions 

Thro my enmemoried mind. 

[13] 



SINGING PLACES 



The music of their marching 
Made mystical refrain 

Then sang itself to silence 
With the approaching train. 



O lovely lads of Rugby, 

Where are you marching now? 

And which of you bears Death s calm kiss 
Upon his boyish brow? 



14 



SINGING PLACES 



JOYCE KILMER 

Within a rolling meadow above the river Ourcq, 
Which flows beneath the autumn sun serenely to 

the sea, 

There rises straight a small green copse 
"The Wood of the Burned Bridge" 
Which has a look of sheltering, as tree stands close 

by tree. 

The little wood protectingly spreads out its 
branching arms 

As e en a human mother might to shield a cher 
ished child 

To guard the new-made mound of one who, sing 
ing, went to sleep 

With all the blithe sweet melody of youth still 
undefined. 

A cypress-spray lies friendly-wise upon his silent 

graveside, 
Placed tenderly by comrades in an ecstasy of 

sadness 
But over there this singing boy, safe with the 

Judge All-righteous, 
May know himself anointed with the oil of utter 

gladness. 

[15] 



SINGING PLACES 



Long may the little watchful wood stand sentinel 
above him, 

Soft may the little river run thro bloodstained 
meadow clover, 

Until the poppies fill the grass proclaiming Peace 
perpetual, 

And Song immortal rise on wings warfare for 
ever over! 



16 



SINGING PLACES 



SIDNEY LANIER 

His lyric wings superbly rove 

The rarer ether, far above 

The simpler blue wherein do move 

The ordinary birds of song 

To which we you and I belong 

(Our wings are neither sure nor strong.) 

But he a princely Nightingale 
With movements true to star-set sail 
Undrooping thro the sternest gale 
Leaves us small sparrows near the ground 
Still chirping gay that he has found 
The wonder-winding Way of Sound. 

His lovely lingering notes of flute, 
Or softly-singing strains of lute, 
Make other music-makers mute; 
So perfectly he knew his art, 
A Song went singing down his heart 
Unknowing where it found its start! 



[17] 



SINGING PLACES 

TO SAROJINI NAIDU 

(On Reading "The Broken Wing"} 

From western Winter s stern and loveless cold 
Wistful for warmth and rapture, to your mild 
And lucent East, O "Golden-hearted Child," 
We turn to glimpse its beauties manifold 
Enmirrored for our eyes, as deft you hold 
The glass to visions mystic, joyous, wild 
As if the Orient Spring looked in and smiled 
To see her image violet and gold. 

Chakora-birds come blithely at your call; 

Thrilled by your voice the oleanders bloom, 
Like us, swift servants to your lyric thrall; 

The lotus-buds burst gladly in the gloom; 
Saffron and silver, radiant over all 

The magic Dawn escapes her nightly doom. 



18 



SINGING PLACES 



EMILY DICKINSON 

(When she "took up her simple wardrobe and 
started Jor the Sun") 

How was it when you reached the Gate? 

I think it was like this: 
You asked St. Peter was it late? 

You didn t want to miss 

Your personal appointment, 
For you had come to stay. 
He, twinkling, deft, the Gate unlocked 

And beckoned you, "This Way." 
Within the outer halls you met 

Old friends of Soul and Mind, 
But nodding amicably you 

Just left them there behind 
To penetrate Sanctissimum 

And find Himself, The Lord 
Twas He who asked you to respond 

And you could not afford 
To scatter silver instants 

When He awaited you 
So punctual, and unperplexed, 

You knocked a time or two; 
Then Milton came, and Shakespeare, 

Polite and very bland, 

[19] 



SINGING PLACES 



Said, "Emily, allow me!" 
And kissed your little hand. 

But you, indifferent, hurried in, 
When they had had their say, 

With "I am looking for the Lord, 
I called on Him to-day!" 



[20] 



SINGING PLACES 



SOROLLA Y BASTIDA 

There came a vital impulse out of Spain, 

All Joyousness, all Nature, and all Light; 
A peasant-painter, conqueror of Pain, 

Portrayer of a pagan-pure Delight. 
The Elemental issues from his brush; 

Humanity breaks bonds from the Effete; 
The Sun, the Skies, the Seas, in primal rush 

Recover from conventionalized retreat. 
Enrapturing maidens, tawny-skinned and glad 

Sport in abandon, sunshine-kissed and free, 
And unrestrained, in Youth s brief beauty clad 

Play Atalanta by the frolic sea . . . 
Our thanks, Sorolla, and our homage, take, 

For this, thy glimpse of blithe reality, 
And many a pilgrimage we fain would make 

To watch thy mirthful waifs of Arcady. 



21 



SINGING PLACES 



THE VIOLINIST 

O Master of the glorious instrument 

Which voices all the deeps and mysteries 

Of souls that yearn in songful sacrament 

To offer up their grateful ecstasies, 

Of hearts that throb with music unexpressed, 

That pulse with joy or break in hidden shame 

To loose the imprisoned music, and confessed 

Stand forth the Artist midst a world s acclaim! 

Be, mighty Master, but the Servant, too, 

Of these, who dumb, thrill to themselves alone; 

Let their hushed melody burst forth thro you 

As in the dim harmonics tender tone 

The silent music of such souls upsprings 

And sobs itself away upon your strings. 



22 



SINGING PLACES 



THE LULLABY OF MARY MOTHER 

I creep between my friendly sheets 

As white and crisp as snow, 

And then I seem 

(As in a dream) 

To hear so soft, so low, 

The Holy Mary singing 

As my Mother sings to me 

So sings she to her little boy 

Who died upon the tree: 

"Sweetly sleep, O Heart o my Heart, 
Thy mother doth watch o er thee." 

(O Mary Mother, dost thou know 
Thy son whom thou dost fondle so 
Will die upon the tree?) 

"Sleep sweet, sleep deep, O Heart o my Heart, 
Nay, do not tremble and weep and start, 
Hush hush sleep sweet, sleep deep, my Heart, 
Soft little Heart o my Heart!" 



SINGING PLACES 



MY MOTHER S EYES 

Pure pools of perfect Joy they are, 
So liquid, lucent, lovely, dear, 

Dilating with a swift surprise, 
Grown radiant and crystal clear, 

Or deep with Mother-mysteries 
My Mother s Eyes! 

Amid the darker days of Life 

Two tender Stars that shine so true 

Flame thro the Darkness, which denies 
Its sombre and despairing hue 

When it in dear delight descries 
My Mother s Eyes! 

O pools of Joy! O shining Stars! 

Transmit your loveliness to me, 
That as the flitting Time-life flies 

And flutters to Eternity, 
Still here may glow, below the skies, 

My Mother s Eyes! 



24 



SINGING PLACES 



MY LADY OF THE MORNING FACE 

O Lady of the morning face, 
Where is your present dwelling-place? 
Have you a pair of purple wings, 
And in your hand a harp that sings? 

Or do you climb the heavenly hills 
To dance among the daffodils 
To pluck each golden dew-filled cup 
And help the little angels up? 

O surely God would let you do 
The things that make you really You 
Dispensing Joy and Love and Grace, 
My Lady of the morning face! 



SINGING PLACES 



THE LITTLE ROAD AND I 

The little road went winding up, 
Went winding up to meet the sky; 
"I think I ll fare that way," quoth I, 
And so the little road and I 
Went winding up. 

We deviated in and out, 
All in and out and roundabout, 
But ever facing toward the sky. 
And when we reached it, by and by, 
We found the Lord of Low and High 
Who bade us rest a little while, 
Since we had come a weary mile, 
A dusty and a weary mile, 
In winding up. 

And so amid the sky and flowers, 

The sky and flowers, which all were ours, 

We rested there, the road and I. 

And when you, too, shall come to die 

You ll find us on that rim of sky, 

Waiting to greet you happily 

As you come winding up. 



SINGING PLACES 



THE POET 

From out the words we all can write 
He brings new loveliness to light. 
With stones we builders set at naught 
He rears a radiant dome of thought. 
Its curves are wrought of golden Youth, 
Of undreamed Beauty, virgin Truth; 
And we lift up our earth-born eyes 
And marvel hi unused surprise. 



27 



SINGING PLACES 



THE SOARING OF THE SWALLOW 

(Teach me to fly, Mother, teach me to fly!) 

Oh, Brother of St. Francis, small swimmer in the 
blue, 

How marvellous thy instinct! Who guided thee 
so true 

(Not quite so high, Birdling, not quite so high!) 

That blithefully persistent, thou tak st the up 
ward flight? 

Thou makest, all undoubting, thy duty a delight. 

Thy stumbling great Man-brother might joy with 
thee to vie 

(Not quite so high, Birdling, not quite so high!) 



28 



SINGING PLACES 



A PRAYER 

Give me, dear Lord, an ample mind 
That I through insight may be kind. 
Let littlenesses of my Heart 
Engender wings and swift depart! 
And in my Soul let sympathy 
Unfold her petals tenderly. 
Dear Father, in humility 
I do petition this of Thee. 



29] 



SINGING PLACES 



THE LITTLE MAID AND THE MASTER 

She sat at the spinet, the Little Maid, 

She sat alone and afraid afraid 

For the Master had said she had played had 

played! 

So long she had practised so docilely 
The scales with their counting of "One Two 

Three," 

And arpeggios trickling painfully 
And now came this fearful ecstasy! 
The Master had said she had played had played! 
She slipped from her seat, all tremblingly, 
And bent herself on her rounded knee, 
While her voice ascended fragilely, 
"O Master, Lord, please help Thou me 
To practise ever faithfully!" 
To The Master thus she prayed she prayed. 



[30 



SINGING PLACES 



SENTINELS 

All night I lie all white and still 

Upon my whiter stiller bed 
And hear the Highway throng and fill, 

Till, late, the hurrying steps are sped. 

The wagons rumble toward the Dim; 

O er shrilling engines Distance creeps; 
And I, I am alone with Him 

Who, keeping, slumbers not nor sleeps. 

I would that I could enter where 
His healthy happy children are, 

But He has left them to my care 
And one great steady solemn Star. 

And so we keep our quiet charge 

Till Dawn dissolves the Grey and Grim 

Responsible, His Aides-at-large, 

The Star and I keep watch with Him. 



31 



SINGING PLACES 



THE ANSWER 

"Why gavest not Thou me the gift of Strength 
That I might prove my manhood, O my Lord? 

Why dost Thou thro my days wild wearying 

length 
Mute Unperformance unto me accord?" 

"A pygmy task it is with body sure 
To do, to act with vigor unabating. 

Tis only to the Strong who can endure 

I give the task that s thine the task of Wait 
ing." 



SINGING PLACES 



O YOUTH, SO SWIFTLY HAST THOU FLED 

O Youth, so swiftly hast Thou fled, 
Since erst pomegranate s juices red 
We quaffed together Thou and I 
A chalice drained too joyously 
To chasten with a far-off dread. 

Now pensive and demure I m led 
Down pallid pathways, tenanted 
No longer by the butterfly, 
O Youth! 

For winged things with Thee have sped, 
And creeping things do fare instead 
Beside me, as I loiteringly 
Wend down the path Maturity 
But Wisdom s morning lies ahead, 
O Youth! 



33 



SINGING PLACES 



REPENTANCE 

In gardens red with roses once I played 
All careless of the radiance of one; 

Now naught but bloomless stalks hedge in my 

road 
As I, unflowered, walk my way, alone. 

Mine eyes so dull among the blossomed ways, 
Grow clear in darkling days austerer close, 

And strain them in the dimness for one small 
Relenting petal from an unplucked rose! 



[84] 



SINGING PLACES 



THE PASSING OF JOY 

I heard Joy trail her garments near, 
(My Heart, she s seeking thee!) 

So sped I forth to kiss their hem 
In blithe expectancy. 

Then came a sobbing through the night, 

A moaning in the mist, 
So knew I (Hush, my little Heart!) 

It was her shroud I kissed. 



35 



SINGING PLACES 



THE BELATED NIGHTINGALE 

When young I searched a darkling wood 

For note of nightingale. 
It came not, tho my listening mood 

Could scarce endure its fail. 

Maturer, at the rim of night, 

In Tuscan village small, 
I caught a trill of bird delight 

"A thrush", thought I, "doth call." 

At morn I said: "With joy I heard 

A marvel-throated thrush." 
"A nightingale" (they said) "the bird 
That broke the purple hush." 

But Youth s wild rose of bloom gone pale, 
What broke the purple hush? 

To them it was a nightingale 
To me it was a thrush! 



36 



SINGERS 

A solitary robin sang 

Upon a lonely tree: 
(Symbolic of my solitude 

That robin s song for me.) 

But tho alone I, too, can sing, 
(So Sorrow set me free!) 

To swell the Music of the World 
Is Joy enough for me. 



37 



SINGING PLACES 



MY CIRCLE OF DELIGHT 

Made up of daily arcs, whose sinuous lines 
Curve ever-surely to the Circle drawn 
In master-strokes and generous designs 
By Him who painted the Creation s Dawn, 
My Circle of Delight rounds out its plan. 

My little hours move round from start to end, 
Some golden, some subdued, but all divine; 
Some glowing with the glory of a friend, 
Some darkened by distress but always mine, 
My radiant ring the Life of God in man. 

For me the joyous task supremely given 
By Him who lives in Wisdom s Perfect Light, 
To mould my arcs of Life to compass Heaven 
And so achieve my Circle of Delight 
Which He had dreamed for me ere I began. 



38 



SINGING PLACES 



SONG 

"Oh! What is thy name, Little Bird, Little Bird, 
(Bird fluttering its wings gainst my heart) ? 

Oh! speak me the truth if thy name it be Youth, 
So brave and so blithesome thou art!" 

(O foolish One, no! 

Ever swift, never slow 

Are the wild wings of Youth to depart !) 

"Oh! What is thy name, Little Bird, Little Bird, 
(Bird singing so sweet in my breast) ? 

Thy name I would hear! Is it Happiness dear 
That homing hath sought a soft nest?" 

(O foolish One, no! 
Fain doth Happiness go 
Nor tarry eth ever to rest!) 

"Oh! What is thy name, Little Bird, Little Bird, 
(Bird cuddling so soft in my arm) ? 

O speak me thy name! Is it clear-singing Fame 
That lieth so close and so warm?" 

(O foolish One, no! 

Fame is colder than snow, 

Nor seeketh it shelter from harm.) 



SINGING PLACES 



"Then tell me thy name, Little Bird, Little Bird, 

(Bird nestling so trustful and near)!" 
"My name, Sweet my Own, 
All the days thou hast known, 
It is Love, it is Love, ever dear!" 



[ 40 



SINGING PLACES 



MOUNT KINSMAN IN AUTUMN 

My sinuous shoulders bear, unspent, 

The tamarack, fir and pine; 
And, stalwart, bend against the sky 

To the Divine Design. 

Storm-sent, the ragged clouds sweep o er 
My wind-tossed, sun-seared head; 

Caressing mists enswathe my brow 
Where warmth and winter wed. 

I stand serene when Eastern glow 

Enwraps me in her bloom; 
I stand serene, with aspect grim, 

In twilight s gathering gloom. 

Tho men pass up and men pass down, 

I stand, and give no sign; 
My stalwart shoulders bend alone 

To the Divine Design. 



[41 



SINGING PLACES 



SONNET OF THE HARVEST 

In radiant death the sinking saffron sun 
Departs a victor in the dying day. 
A cricket chirps the lingering light away 
As cautiously approach the shadows dun, 
And, bleating, swift the little lambkins run 
Adown the dimming path they often stray 
Unwatched and sportive, in their awkward play. 
And now the Harvest Moon s bright benison 
Sweeps o er the plain of yellowing harvest-fields 
Where, in the gracious gloaming, sing and reap 
The happy harvesters, whose music rings 
Around the harmony the Harvest yields . . . 
All ended, they full soon shall sink to sleep 
And darkling Silence hold the Heart of Things. 



42 



SINGING PLACES 



HAMMOCK SONG 

Within my hempen crescent I 
Am Voyager o er land and sky, 
The grasses brush me where I lie 
And the vast blue is canopy. 

All gloried green comes surge on surge 
Of soft grass waves that silent merge 
Toward Buttercup s deep golden urge. 

The gnarled and wrinkled Apple Trees 
Whose knotty, bowed and faithful knees 
Uphold my crescent for my ease 
Yield melody of Birds and Bees. 

Gold Oriole and Chaffinch small, 
And sparrow twittering thro all 
The other music, swiftly call. 

And O my Heart! A Humming Bird 
With ruby throat adds his wee word 
Of perfect motion the unheard 
Sweetness of Grace his God conferred. 

Within my hempen crescent I 

When listless watch the Dusk draw nigh, 

The Breezes are my Lullaby, 

And Stars bend near for company. 

1431 



SINGING PLACES 



A PURITAN 

I ve felt the thrill that sweeps the soul 

In olived Italy; 
I ve threaded ways of ancient Rome, 

And dreamed in Tuscany; 
In Paestan temples have I prayed 

Upon my bended knee 
But Oh! the sweet, salt, fragrant air 

Of Plymouth-by-the-sea! 
The Alps are dazzling white and fair, 

But in her Springtime green 
Mount Moosilauke s the fairest peak 

That e er mine eyes have seen! 
The high-throned coast of Portugal 

Compels my scrutiny, 
But Oh! the blue, blue Berkshire Hills! 

Their beauty speaks to me! 
Through cloisters old and dim my feet 

Have reverently trod, 
But to a small white Meeting-house 

I go to find my God. 
And so whene er in alien lands 

I joyfully may roam 
It sings and sings within my heart: 

"New England is my homel" 



44 



SINGING PLACES 



SPRING IN LOUISBURG SQUARE 

Nestling half way up the hillside, small and calm, 

all unaware 
Of the rushing and the rumble and the mart s 

tumultuous roar, 
A shrine to storied memory sleeps on the quaint 

old Square, 

Where Life slips back from Now to Then as 
through an open door. 

The very air of England seems caught and cher 
ished dear 
Within this tiny leisured spot of brick and 

guarded grass; 
We think the thoughts of bygone days, and "now 

that April s here," 

Dream dreams of Youth and violets, all lovely 
things that pass. 

The houses brick austerity grows friendly and 

benign 
Beneath the jocund wooing sun; the slim young 

leaves unfold; 

A juvenile grey squirrel, his bushy tail in line, 
Runs up an ancient lichened elm and there 
begins to scold. 



45 



SINGING PLACES 



The chirping chickadees retort, and soon the 

startled air 
Is rent by myriad chatterings; till, sweet, a 

bluebird s note 
Restores the primal harmony, and once again the 

Square 

Sleeps on in "poetry of earth", quiescent and 
remote. 



46 



SINGING PLACES 



THE DAILY PAGEANT 

First, little Hours tricked out in golden Dawn 
Who send their fleet and winged heralds round 
To wake the world with sweetly chosen notes 
From yellow, blue and brown befeathered throats 
That swell soniferous with supple sound. 
And tiny winds in sleepy blades of grass 
That dream them flowers, begin to stretch and 

wake 

And wash themselves within a cup of dew 
Dear little children-Hours that are so few! 

Then, older mid-day Hours brave to behold 
In liveries of brilliant blue and gold; 
Maturer Hours of later afternoon 
In shimmering mixture that an azure haze 
Subduing sunshine, fashions for the Day s 
Most lovely garment fading Oh too soon! 
Next sunset Hours like cardinals arrayed 
By Nature, loving purple in parade; 
Such pomp and circumstance she now bestows, 
Such lavishness as when she shapes a Rose! 
And last, as vaguer grow the Nears and Fars, 
There comes a dim procession bearing stars. 

How sadly small the stature of his soul 
Who, gazing on this pageant of a Day, 

Can only sigh and blindly turn away 
Instead of kneeling down in joy to pray! 

[47] 



SINGING PLACES 



THE CLEARER VIEW 

My stained-glass days, so brief and beautiful, 
Mid Gothic arches spent, with filtering light 
Of amber and of amethyst, are gone. 
Yet, love I more my present hours, all filled 
With visions of the sun s unveiled light 
Where gazing deep into the Heart of things 
I see my God, undimmed, approachable, 
Walk in the gladsome garden of His world. 



48 



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